Fractured Soul | COMPLETED

Part III

As she walked down the almost empty school hallway, her mind wandered back to the days that she would stay after school in the hopes that nobody would hear her sobbing in the girl's cubicle. When the door did swing open, she forced herself to stifle her sobs using the back of her hand. If a sob did escape, she would cover it up with either a cough or flushing the toilet. In a rush, she would chuck her hands under the running tap, and apologise quickly as she exited the bathroom.

Her friends would be concerned, even after she convinced them through teary eyes that she was fine. The question 'Are you okay?' always followed her weak reassurances. There's only so much she could tell her friends before feeling as if she was a burden.

'You know that I'm here for you, anytime you want.'

Her friends had good intentions, she knew that. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the sentiment behind it because she did. But, she knew that her friends wouldn't be there at 2am when there were too many voices in her head, telling her that her existence here wasn't worth it. She tried to ignore it, she really did – she tried creating her own alternate universes but the thoughts kept coming back to her. She tried counting sheep but the sheep skipped away, leaving her alone in a field planted with her thoughts.

Back then, sleep wasn't much of an escape either. Nightmares plagued her dreams and all her worries of being a burden to the people who mattered the most, manifested in her dreams. The voices that told her that she meant nothing were much louder in her dreams, with no sign of escape. She was always in a glass box, pounding on the walls as people walked past, screaming for help. They always ignored her. Before she knew it, she would always pound too hard and the box would teeter. Those moments were the worst – the long pause between the box seeming as if it was going to steady and as if it was going to fall always caused her heartbeat to spike. Every single time, the box would never steady. It always fell. Always fell into a chasm, filled with everlasting darkness.

Then she would wake up. She never got to the end, never got to see her body splattered on the ground. She never got to feel the glass shards that dug into her skin as her fingers twitched sporadically. Her last moments would be hers, at least that's what she imagined.

Now, she never has that dream.

It had been three months since she was released from the hospital. Her dad bombarded her with questions a few weeks later, after she had shown progress of walking little distances and carrying conversations. He apologised profusely when it all got a bit too much for her, as she clutched her forehead in pain. After a while, he got the hint and stopped asking, realising that she'd tell him when she felt like it.

She did, slowly at first. Little inklings trickled out of her brain, like a leaky tap until she forced it closed. He would press her for details but the moment was gone, and she returned back to usual quiet herself. A month later, she sat down with her father and her brother to explain everything. She didn't know how but she was able to talk about the ordeal more freely, describing her thoughts in detail. The incessant thoughts telling her that she wasn't good enough so her existence wasn't needed in her world. That nobody would ever love her enough or stay by her side. That she was destined to be alone, for the rest of her life. That every situation that didn't work out was her fault.

*

'But you are good enough.' Her brother pointed out, still trying to wrap his head around her logic. 'Everyone always told you that you're more than good enough.'

She sighed, throwing her hands up in frustration. How could she explain her feelings in a way that they would understand?

"How do I put this carefully? Say that I'm stuck in a tower. The tower is made out of every bad thought that I've ever had, and it's pretty strongly built. Each time someone tells me something good about myself, it comes in the form of a flimsy arrow. It won't do that much damage, will it? See, to damage the tower – it's gotta come from the inside. Inside the tower, lay all the tools needed to escape the tower. It doesn't really matter how many arrows are used in the hope that one of them would stick and eventually result in the destruction of the tower. It's up to me to escape the tower. It has to come from within. I had to realise that the tower is just a tower – it's not my home, it's just as escapable. My thoughts are just my thoughts – it's an obstacle but I can get over them."

*

For the first time in a while, she opened the door to her mother's bedroom. She didn't exactly know what she expecting – she wasn't expecting a miracle, she wasn't expecting her mother to run to her and sweep her up in a hug. She didn't know why her heartrate spiked each time she opened the door. Perhaps, in the back of her mind, she was hoping for a miracle – the hope that something had changed and for the better.

Nobody really told her what was wrong with her mother. Perhaps they did, and her thoughts drowned them out. All she knew was that her mother had chronic pain that often left her bedridden. The little times that your mother could get out, it was only to go to the bathroom and even that was a struggle.

This room was foreign to her. She had only been here a few times in her life. Her mother's small whimpers of pain, each time she tried to move prevented her from turning the knob to open the door. Before, she was scared to face her mother's almost lifeless body. Now, fear wasn't holding her back but she was still scared.

As she entered the room, she knew that something had changed. She dragged her finger across the newly painted pale blue walls, as she made her way to her mother's side. She sat down on the chair and peered down at her mother's position. She was still, breathing delicately as her black hair was sprawled out all over the pillow. There was a journal planted next to her, open on a page with a pen laying in the middle. Small, disjointed handwriting was written all over the place, not even in between the lines. She looked closer, making sure not to fall on her sleeping mother, and saw that the same sentences were written multiple times, all under each other.

There was a spark in her heart, and she grinned relentlessly.

She knew it wasn't a miracle, but at least it was a start.

*

She pulled her sleeves towards her hand, ducking her head as she walked past a familiar group of girls. She heard the whispers before she could even put her earphones in. She didn't stop even when they called out her name, she just kept walking, letting the music drown them out. Somethings never change.

However, she had. The thoughts hadn't completely disappeared. They were still there, hanging out in the back of her mind, reappearing whenever she had an off-day. She no longer felt the need to jump off any time she walked on a bridge or to cross the road when there was speeding cars. Her bad days were just as bad as they were before, and sometimes even turned into bad weeks. But she knew that this was a just a bump in the road, just a little obstacle that she would have to overcome.

She was still broken, but now she was slowly gluing all her broken pieces together. 

Piece by piece.

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I can't believe it's taken me two years to write this very short story. The pause was half intentional and unintentional - school, A-Levels and friends kinda got in the way but I wanted to write the third part when I was in a better position mentally.

This story is very personal to me but I just wanted to show that there's always a chance for a better life. It might take a while, it may take four years like it did for me or it might take a couple of months. Recovery isn't a destination, it's simply the journey that you have to take to get to your 'ideal' you. 

Of course, you'll get your bad days and those days are the worst. You could be three years into recovery, and suddenly have a really bad day and you resort to harming yourself again. Afterwards, you'll feel like shit because you were doing so well! Trust me, I know how that feels. Those bad days are only part of your progress - so please, don't criticise yourself for having them.

If you are contemplating ending your life, or you don't feel like there's anything out here for you, please remember that there is help out there for you. There are various hotlines, websites that can help you. 

Look after yourself, thank you for reading!

Gloria.